I'm not ready to forgive you.
Not yet.
I was dead. I had done my time. I was given the reward that all heroes deserve at the end of their lives. I was happy. Content. I died knowing that I did something right.
You decided that wasn't enough. My sacrifices weren't enough. Stripped of everything that I am, you forced me to abandon my happy ending for your petty plot. Because of you I am a god, and I loathe myself.
I will stand by my band through the deserts of Akhetaten. I will endure the enmity of Horus because of a callous mistake. I will swallow my pride and watch my dignity shred to pieces. I will outlast even the archer's mark. I will outlast Apep's awakening.
Then I'm done. Your pawn has crowned herself a queen, and my fate is in my hands. I have one last debt to pay. I have a future to secure. Seasons will pass.
Then in the winter I will come for you and you will regret this game of thrones you've pulled. Your father will be a failure as his father before him. Your victory will be naught but ashes in your throat. I will see you broken.
I'll be ready to forgive you then.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Reflection
Cairo is oppressive, a city built on ruins built on dust that settled on the ancient bones of a civilization that dawned at the beginning of history. The air was harsh, a coarse wind that scraped against her skin and the inside of her throat when she breathed, leaving her raw. Exposed. Unsettled in body as well as in mind. The streets are closed and dark, buildings pressed so tight together they drowned out the sky. She felt like she was crawling underground and claustrophobia tickled as a memory of an emotion she once knew intimately.
There is no relief within the sanctity of her mind. Just beyond the veil of consciousness, the unconquerable tide of the children of Ra hammer against what little defense she has. She just has to ask and they would grant her access to the well of endurance that would stave off the wracking dreams Aten has condemned them all with. Her lips curl into a dagger-slash of a smirk, a rueful irony. If she asked for help, she'd fall into that prideful extremity and yet, if she didn't ask for help, that maddening red of a berserk fury would wash over her surely as the tide rolls onto the shore.
The three of them have stopped addressing one another as separate entities. It's exhausting to stretch one's mind in three directions even for those of iron will. Without that buffer, she's just Rhiannon. Shadows of a woman who move in synchronicity through the maze.
"Stop. Here." One of them speaks. The tickle of her pride is a thorn in the back of her thoughts that scratches against the faint webbing of sanity that keeps her virtues from overriding her. The extremities are kept like a horde of zombies behind a barely-there barn door; just waiting for the one weakness to set themselves free. She pauses in front of a closed off garden, the only sounds around her now being the tranquil babble of a nearby fountain. Only within the four walls does she finally catch a glimpse of the morning sun overhead.
She's drawn to the water and stares down at her harried reflection. The grime of Imhotep's prison is still upon her, along with the dust and dirt of the tunnels. There's still a vivid scar that races along her shoulder and down into the sarong she's wrapped herself in. A combination of a Sphinx's hunger and Horus' anger.
"Give me something to rage against, Morrigu." She murmurs within the private garden where there is no one to hear her weakness. "Or distract me. Anything before I lose myself in Balor's city." For that is what Cairo has become. A tomb and a monument all devoted to the conquer and entrapment of a pantheon that was old when the world was young; and if she wasn't careful, it would be her final battle.
The water is beautiful enough, reflecting the clouds overhead and the cityscape that surrounds her upon every side. Vast windows stretch upward for what seems like forever, before a churning sway of darkness engulfs the place behind her form. The reflection in the water reveals the ivory ghost of Anann in her raven feathered cloak. The skull of the bird canted to gaze down over the fae's shoulder into the very same pool.
She holds in her hand a mace made of dire black spikes, and it has unpleasant gore strung from one vicious hook to the other. Viscera. She looked flawless of course, avoiding even a drop of gore upon her thanks to her undeniable star power. "Give you something to rage against? Very well; one of the oldest aspects of your father died while you were gone."
One aspect takes point at one end of the garden to make sure they're not snuck upon, or the moment broken. She knows no one will come after her, but she still keep vigil. Rhiannon looks into the reflected pool and leans back into Anann before she remembers Anann is not there. Not truly. She catches herself before she turns into the fool. Manannan's death is a splinter that nestles into her mind and does a little to distract from the rage that's broiled since her perceived personal failures since the meteor struck the desert. It haunts her like the dreams that plague her whenever she tries to close her eyes.
"I keep seeing the people I love fall in battle because of this damned curse. Wuyi ignores me point-blank and that's set us into the manipulations of Isis and Alicia. I can't read people. I can't command people. I can't even lie, Anann. I can't even convince someone else to maim in my place because my Enech was crushed by a stupid song! If I had just been wiser in the desert, I would have known what Hathor intended to do and all of this... this wouldn't have happened.
I could have sensed Horus and Hathor's entrapment of Set. I could have seen ... whatever Ra has done to make Vana so doting. I could have taken Imhotep's challenge by storm. I barely snared him in his own trap. I know Kelly's messed with my mind and I can't find myself to grow angry at it. I ... damn it. I'm running on fumes and I can't keep my tongue silent lest I decide to reenact Marquis de Sade's temptations in the streets and Wuyi expects me to ... I don't know." She deflates, all her bravado crumbling away to leave behind a tired shell.
The figment of Anann nods her head slightly at the words, though her demeanor is slightly more menacing than it usually tends to be. Her face is placid and the line of her lips are like the slash of a dagger, silver ichor beneath casting her features into a metallic patina.
"You are whining, and a daughter of the Tuatha does not whine. It does not matter if you are making a statement of fact, you are letting yourself wallow in your own misery and failings. We are always hardest on ourselves, but that hardship should come in the form of affirming your determination to strive harder to accomplish the things you desire, not seek sympathy in the arms of another. Not even your wife. This is not befitting a ruler, Red Lady."
Rhiannon sucks in a sharp breath, and there's a wounded cast to her expression. It can't fade away under a mask because of her dismal grasp of emotions and social trickery, but Anann can so easily see the goddess swallow the bitter medicine and take it for what it's intended to be.
Her gaze averts shamefully before she nods. "Gods, I hate being Irish sometimes." She says as her last concession to what she knows is proper coming from Anann. She steels her shoulders and looks back into the water. "I hate you being the senisble one even more, sometimes."
Anann scoffs quietly and within the reflection of the water she places a hand comfortingly upon Rhiannon's shoulder while the other seems to glide over the curve of her crimson locks in gentle petting. It was a consoling guesture following her tongue lashing, without undermining the lashing in the slightest.
"I sometimes hate being Irish as well, I am afraid, but nothing has taught me better the importance of being a vital person instead of merely being a cog in the wheel of life. You are Irish down to your very blood, and a person who stands tall amongst her peers to shine like a beacon of pride. So believe me when I say that all your sacrifices are not in vain. If nothing else, I see them and mark you as worthy."
Rhiannon's quiet as the reflection disappears as a passing bird settles on the fountain to sup at the waters and wash it's feathers of the sand that is everywhere. She touches her finger to the cool surface and pulls away again. She stays in the garden until the chimes of the morning indicate Ra's part of their plan set into motion.
There is no relief within the sanctity of her mind. Just beyond the veil of consciousness, the unconquerable tide of the children of Ra hammer against what little defense she has. She just has to ask and they would grant her access to the well of endurance that would stave off the wracking dreams Aten has condemned them all with. Her lips curl into a dagger-slash of a smirk, a rueful irony. If she asked for help, she'd fall into that prideful extremity and yet, if she didn't ask for help, that maddening red of a berserk fury would wash over her surely as the tide rolls onto the shore.
The three of them have stopped addressing one another as separate entities. It's exhausting to stretch one's mind in three directions even for those of iron will. Without that buffer, she's just Rhiannon. Shadows of a woman who move in synchronicity through the maze.
"Stop. Here." One of them speaks. The tickle of her pride is a thorn in the back of her thoughts that scratches against the faint webbing of sanity that keeps her virtues from overriding her. The extremities are kept like a horde of zombies behind a barely-there barn door; just waiting for the one weakness to set themselves free. She pauses in front of a closed off garden, the only sounds around her now being the tranquil babble of a nearby fountain. Only within the four walls does she finally catch a glimpse of the morning sun overhead.
She's drawn to the water and stares down at her harried reflection. The grime of Imhotep's prison is still upon her, along with the dust and dirt of the tunnels. There's still a vivid scar that races along her shoulder and down into the sarong she's wrapped herself in. A combination of a Sphinx's hunger and Horus' anger.
"Give me something to rage against, Morrigu." She murmurs within the private garden where there is no one to hear her weakness. "Or distract me. Anything before I lose myself in Balor's city." For that is what Cairo has become. A tomb and a monument all devoted to the conquer and entrapment of a pantheon that was old when the world was young; and if she wasn't careful, it would be her final battle.
The water is beautiful enough, reflecting the clouds overhead and the cityscape that surrounds her upon every side. Vast windows stretch upward for what seems like forever, before a churning sway of darkness engulfs the place behind her form. The reflection in the water reveals the ivory ghost of Anann in her raven feathered cloak. The skull of the bird canted to gaze down over the fae's shoulder into the very same pool.
She holds in her hand a mace made of dire black spikes, and it has unpleasant gore strung from one vicious hook to the other. Viscera. She looked flawless of course, avoiding even a drop of gore upon her thanks to her undeniable star power. "Give you something to rage against? Very well; one of the oldest aspects of your father died while you were gone."
One aspect takes point at one end of the garden to make sure they're not snuck upon, or the moment broken. She knows no one will come after her, but she still keep vigil. Rhiannon looks into the reflected pool and leans back into Anann before she remembers Anann is not there. Not truly. She catches herself before she turns into the fool. Manannan's death is a splinter that nestles into her mind and does a little to distract from the rage that's broiled since her perceived personal failures since the meteor struck the desert. It haunts her like the dreams that plague her whenever she tries to close her eyes.
"I keep seeing the people I love fall in battle because of this damned curse. Wuyi ignores me point-blank and that's set us into the manipulations of Isis and Alicia. I can't read people. I can't command people. I can't even lie, Anann. I can't even convince someone else to maim in my place because my Enech was crushed by a stupid song! If I had just been wiser in the desert, I would have known what Hathor intended to do and all of this... this wouldn't have happened.
I could have sensed Horus and Hathor's entrapment of Set. I could have seen ... whatever Ra has done to make Vana so doting. I could have taken Imhotep's challenge by storm. I barely snared him in his own trap. I know Kelly's messed with my mind and I can't find myself to grow angry at it. I ... damn it. I'm running on fumes and I can't keep my tongue silent lest I decide to reenact Marquis de Sade's temptations in the streets and Wuyi expects me to ... I don't know." She deflates, all her bravado crumbling away to leave behind a tired shell.
The figment of Anann nods her head slightly at the words, though her demeanor is slightly more menacing than it usually tends to be. Her face is placid and the line of her lips are like the slash of a dagger, silver ichor beneath casting her features into a metallic patina.
"You are whining, and a daughter of the Tuatha does not whine. It does not matter if you are making a statement of fact, you are letting yourself wallow in your own misery and failings. We are always hardest on ourselves, but that hardship should come in the form of affirming your determination to strive harder to accomplish the things you desire, not seek sympathy in the arms of another. Not even your wife. This is not befitting a ruler, Red Lady."
Rhiannon sucks in a sharp breath, and there's a wounded cast to her expression. It can't fade away under a mask because of her dismal grasp of emotions and social trickery, but Anann can so easily see the goddess swallow the bitter medicine and take it for what it's intended to be.
Her gaze averts shamefully before she nods. "Gods, I hate being Irish sometimes." She says as her last concession to what she knows is proper coming from Anann. She steels her shoulders and looks back into the water. "I hate you being the senisble one even more, sometimes."
Anann scoffs quietly and within the reflection of the water she places a hand comfortingly upon Rhiannon's shoulder while the other seems to glide over the curve of her crimson locks in gentle petting. It was a consoling guesture following her tongue lashing, without undermining the lashing in the slightest.
"I sometimes hate being Irish as well, I am afraid, but nothing has taught me better the importance of being a vital person instead of merely being a cog in the wheel of life. You are Irish down to your very blood, and a person who stands tall amongst her peers to shine like a beacon of pride. So believe me when I say that all your sacrifices are not in vain. If nothing else, I see them and mark you as worthy."
Rhiannon's quiet as the reflection disappears as a passing bird settles on the fountain to sup at the waters and wash it's feathers of the sand that is everywhere. She touches her finger to the cool surface and pulls away again. She stays in the garden until the chimes of the morning indicate Ra's part of their plan set into motion.
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